I really liked this book. I wanted to go back and reread it. Each chapter could stand alone as a short story as well as being an integral part of a novel. When I finished the book I hoped that the author would soon write more fiction. I've lived in NY for 3 years now and found his descriptions of both people and places to be very accurate. I strongly recommend this book.
Have we given up on storytelling? Can every novel now just be a random collection of anecdotes about stationary, bloodless characters? No more Mark Twains? Is that the deal? I don't see how any story about the subtle sub-current of suburban angst can be anything other than boring. Even (Or is it particularly?) when the story is set in NYC. Each time I go in search of an electric new novel, something to remind me of the ambition of Roth and DeLillo, my path leads me to a whiny, half-assed next generation of writers. The particular path that led to 'Triburbia' came courtesy of the NY Times and...wow...if I can't trust them... Perhaps this is my own existential dilemma. Perhaps it can be Chapter 1 of my novel about the quotidian crises of my life in the West Village. Call it 'West Villageville'.
Written in the style of many female-centered novels, Triburbia tells the stories of a group of fathers in Tribeca. The men meet for coffee after dropping their children at school. The coffee klatch includes: a sound engineer, a sculptor, a film producer, a gangster, a playwright, and a memoirist.
These men are linked by more than their geography. Their wives, their children, their careers, and their community all intersect in interesting ways.
I liked this. The characters were believable and so New York. Even the kids were pretty well written.
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